


swing my crosses side to side

by Gladdybug



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Circus, Attraction, Banter, Circus Performer AU, Confessions, First Kiss, Flirting, Fluff, Knife Throwing, M/M, Sexual Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, brief mentions of knifeplay, confession of attraction, mutual flirting, no beta we die like Glenn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:54:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26530951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gladdybug/pseuds/Gladdybug
Summary: Ferdinand thinks the guy who keeps throwing knives at him is hot and he’s pretty sure the feeling is mutual.Circus performer AU where Hubert is a knife-thrower and Ferdinand is his beautiful assistant.“You and your litany of sharp things do not scare me.”“Are you sure about that?”
Relationships: Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 12
Kudos: 85





	swing my crosses side to side

**Author's Note:**

> CW for very brief mentions of knifeplay.
> 
> They’re not dating yet, we love ourselves some UST :’) Hubert’s stage name, Quicksilver, is a reference to a certain sharpshooting character played by his Eng VA whom I am also enamored with, an internet cookie to anyone who can guess ;D  
> Ferdinand’s stage name is a reference to his crest I guess? Also what circus isn’t complete without clowns?
> 
> The new Ava Max album dropped today so here are the songs I had on repeat while writing this:  
> Take You To Hell (stole the title from this song)  
> Call Me Tonight  
> OMG What’s Happening

_ Fwip! _

One moment, he held the stout handle of his throwing dagger between his fingers, glinting blade pointing up in the air like a beacon for the eyes of the audience. With a barely noticeable flick of the wrist, his hands were empty, splayed in midair, long fingers striking in their white silk gloves. Almost simultaneously, Ferdinand heard the _thwonk_ of the blade striking soft wood a hair’s breadth from his ear. As usual, Hubert’s aim was impeccable. 

A gasp rippled through the audience, deafening as it bounced off the walls of the circus tent before silencing almost immediately as soon as Hubert held up another blade. His gaze flickered to meet Ferdinand’s, focused and steely in a way that sent desire briefly frissioning through his body, nodding down to Ferdinand’s left hip to indicate where he’d be aiming for next. Ferdinand swallowed then nodded. The cut-proof vest he wore beneath his costume would protect him from any possible mishaps, but he felt his abs tighten anyway. Hubert made a show of twirling on his toes before releasing the knife. True to his aim, the knife spun thrice in the air before embedding itself mere inches from the curve of Ferdinand’s waist, followed by deafening applause. 

Despite his morose and grim appearance, or maybe because of it, Hubert’s performances were some of the most popular acts of the night. There was something undeniably captivating about watching him run a pink tongue shamelessly across the flat of a dagger before juggling it and two others in mesmerizing patterns, his unshakable focus belying his expertise at making the blades dance for him. It also helped that his usual costumes involved airy blouses whose buttons stopped midway up his chest, exposing the defined expanse of a pale chest and a sharp collarbone, tucked into high-waisted trousers that clung to every curve and edge of his long legs, ending in steel-toed boots polished to reflect the bright lights of the circus. Tonight, a rolled-up red bandanna keeps any wayward curls of dark hair away from his face, making him look even more so like some sort of pirate king from a bad movie. Though Hubert was a relatively restrained personality, his subtle flair for the dramatic captivated his audience, of whom Ferdinand was included. 

He watches Hubert expertly juggle three more daggers before sending them into the target at Ferdinand’s back in rapid succession, where they appear next to his other ear, his other hip, and between his legs. He bows, signaling the end of his act, and the resulting applause is thunderous. A few quick strides later, he is at Ferdinand’s side, collecting his knives from the target. 

Silk-clad fingers brush against Ferdinand’s cheek, perhaps by accident, perhaps on purpose, as Hubert moves to collect the knives by Ferdinand’s ears. “You did _wonderfully_ ,” he murmurs, low and enticing. If it weren’t for the straps around his wrists and ankles securing him to the target, Ferdinand’s weak knees would send him toppling into Hubert’s arms, not an altogether unwelcome thought. The knives slide from the soft wood like hot butter. Ferdinand briefly considers how the tip of one of those knives would feel scratching gently across his skin before replying.

“I trust your skills,” he answers as Hubert reaches down to collect the knives on either side of his waist. He could almost feel the heat of Hubert’s hands through the thickness of his cut-proof vest, or at least, he liked to imagine so. 

“Brave of you to do so,” says Hubert, one thin brow raised. The smirk playing on lips, lips that Ferdinand so dreadfully wished to kiss and mark with his teeth, sends fire coursing through his blood. 

Ferdinand huffs, forcing his near-boiling lust to simmer a little, at least while the still-applauding audience had their thousands of eyes trained upon them. “Your knives are no sharper than the fangs of a lion or the claws of a tiger,” he retorts, “you and your litany of sharp things do not scare me.” 

“Are you sure about that?” breathes Hubert, gaze unwavering as he reaches down to collect the final knife between Ferdinand’s spread legs, running a fingertip along the dull edge of the blade before wrapping his fingers around the handle and yanking it from the board. Ferdinand inhales sharply at this, a visible tremor shaking his body, his tongue shyly peeking out to wet parted lips. Hubert’s face is inches from his at this point, his eyes as brilliant and intense and  _ green _ like cut peridots. If he cranes his neck just right, he could slot their trembling lips together, could cut the ridiculous tension between them the way Hubert’s knives cut through air. 

But he doesn’t. There are too many eyes on them, and his bravery only goes so far. He watches Hubert sheath his knives in the holsters strapped to his thighs and a small laugh escapes him. He’s had dozens of blades pointed his way without batting an eyelash, yet baring his heart to the man who wields them sends adrenaline coursing through his body as though he were facing death--the irony is obvious, glaring him in the face, mocking him for his fragile heart. Yet he’s already sure that his fragile heart belongs with Hubert, whom he trusts to handle it as masterfully as he does his own knives. 

As the applause dies down and the ringmaster moves to distract the audience, Hubert works to undo the restraints that keep Ferdinand strapped to the board. “Let’s get you out of these,” he says, a little more tenderly than before, running a gloved finger along the most sensitive part of Ferdinand’s inner forearm before settling on the buckle fastened around his wrist. Soon, Ferdinand’s wrists are free and he is allowed to start unbuckling one of the straps around his ankles. Hubert kneels to help him out of the other one and with that, Ferdinand is free. They stand to face the audience, hand in hand, bowing once more to the sound of thrumming applause. 

_ “Give it up once more for Quicksilver and Saint’s Flame! Next up, we will challenge our very own strongman with the question: how many clowns can he lift?”  _

A loud shout rips through the air as said strongman bursts into the arena in a flash of sequins and blue hair, followed by a flurry of honking and beeping clowns that conveniently serves to hold the audience’s attention as Hubert and Ferdinand flee offstage, clutching at each others’ hands and arms to not lose each other in the chaos.

In their rush to avoid running into as many clowns as they can, they tumble less-than-gracefully through the performer exit of the tent only to collide with the side of the stable, no doubt startling Ferdinand’s favorite horse as Hubert grunts from the impact of being squashed between the stable and Ferdinand’s own weight. 

As the spinning of Ferdinand’s head slows and the honking in his ears dims its racket, Hubert’s body materializes beneath his own, warm and solid and still slick with sweat from the hot arena lights. Hubert’s arms are wrapped around his back protectively, hands settled on his waist where his knives had barely touched before, and in their tumble, he’s managed to wedge a knee between Ferdinand’s thighs. His blouse is askew, the deep V now revealing the line of where Hubert had shaved his chest hair and where he hadn’t bothered to, and he’s blinking owlishly, no doubt trying to recover from having the wind knocked from him by the full weight of his beautiful assistant. 

“Are you unhurt?” comes Hubert’s shaky voice, relaxing his hold on Ferdinand slightly. 

“...Yes,” says Ferdinand, steadying himself with clumsy hands pressed to Hubert’s shoulders, “thank you for, um, cushioning my fall.” 

Sadly, Hubert’s arms fall from their place across Ferdinand’s back to hang weakly at his sides. Ferdinand mourns their loss, but steps away from Hubert regardless. “Well. Yes,” Hubert says, looking at his own feet, “we couldn’t have you getting hurt after you, um, so beautifully faced my blades,” the words fall from his lips in an increasingly rapid babble as a flush spreads from Hubert’s cheeks down his neck and chest upon realizing what he’s saying. 

Ferdinand can’t help but chuckle at this. All of Hubert’s bravado has vanished as soon as the eyes of the audience are removed from him, leaving someone bashful, honest, and heart-wrenchingly tender in their wake. “Beautiful, you say?” prods Ferdinand, “how sweet of you.”

“I meant what I said,” grumbles Hubert, refusing to back down.

“If you think I’m beautiful, I cannot imagine what sort of absurd praises you sing about yourself.”

“What?” Hubert’s eyes go wide, the pale pink flush deepening to an adorable shade of crimson that all but glows in the moonlight.

It is time to come clean, to offer Hubert his fragile heart. “I, too, meant what I said. I find you absolutely captivating, Hubert.” He steps closer, sliding his hands up Hubert’s chest to lock his fingers behind Hubert’s neck. “Enticing. Arousing. And more.” 

Hubert accepts wholeheartedly, his hands once again finding their place on the small of Ferdinand’s waist as he holds Ferdinand’s gaze, eyes glittering in interest. He leans down so that their noses brush, eyelids lowering as his gaze drops to Ferdinand’s lips, watching the redness that blooms as Ferdinand worries his bottom lip with eager teeth. “Consider me intrigued,” he murmurs, “I’d like to hear what you have to say.” 

Ferdinand grins and feels Hubert’s pulse quicken beneath his palms. “I could be convinced to tell you with the right argument.” 

“Shall I make my case, then?” chuckles Hubert. He slides a hand up Ferdinand’s spine, reveling in the shivers that wrack his partner’s body with the touch, then trails silken fingertips past a soft earlobe, down a strong jaw, pressing his thumb into the softness of Ferdinand’s lower lip as he does so.

“ _ Yes _ ,” breathes Ferdinand as he finally presses their lips together. 

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed! 
> 
> And before anyone asks, yes, the knife was a metaphor. ;)


End file.
